"At once. As soon as I see her—no beating about the bush."
"Roger—she may be utterly out of the mood."
"Hang moods! I beg your pardon, Elsbeth. But I'm going to tell her—certain things. If she doesn't like it I'm going back to Dene. She'll know where to find me when she changes her mind. Elsbeth, don't look so hopeless."
"You don't understand Alwynne."
"I don't want to understand her—I want to marry her. I must stick to my own way. Can't you conceive that all this consideration, all this deference to moods and dissection of motives, this horribly feminine atmosphere that she seems to have lived in, of subtleties, and reservations, and simulations—may be bad for her? It seems to me that she's always being thought about. You, with your anxious affection—that unholy woman with her lancet and probe—you neither of you leave her alone for a second. She's always being touched. Well, I'm going to leave her alone. It gives her a chance."
"I've never spoiled her." Elsbeth was off at a tangent.
"I'm sure of it. I can remember Father holding you up to Mother once. He said you were the most judicious woman with children that he knew."
"Mother was awfully annoyed." Roger chuckled. "I'd been bawling for my fourth doughnut—and got it."
"I've never spoiled Alwynne," repeated Elsbeth tonelessly.